


The Words

by imogenbynight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, Ficlet, Fluff, Love, M/M, something to keep you guys going while I finish the next chapters of my other fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:52:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short, fluffy oneshot about the boys in the batcave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Words

They’ve been reading for hours when Dean’s eyes finally settle on the symbol they’ve been searching for. Staring down at it, he lifts both hands up as he re-reads the passage, then slaps them, palm down, on the table.  
  
“I found it!” Dean grins, smug, and leans back in his chair to point at his brother, “and you said it was impossible!”  
  
Sam and Castiel, each busy with their own books, glance up, and Sam frowns, reaching accross to pull the book toward himself.  
  
“Do you want a medal?”  
  
Sam’s still pissy over a prank involving his toothbrush and a tube of wasabi, and while Dean can kind of see where he’s coming from, he’s also of the opinion that it was just retribution for the _Save the Earth so we have someplace to boogie_ bumper sticker Sam had defiled the Impala with earlier in the week.  
  
“Well, I’m the one who found it,” Dean says, lamely.  
  
Sam snorts, reading the page, and pushes his hair back out of his face.  
  
“Looks right, anyway,” he says after a moment, getting to his feet with a yawn, “I’m gonna crash. We can head out first thing.”  
  
“Sounds good.”  
  
“I’ll return shortly,” Castiel says, and is gone before either can respond.  
  
Sam turns to Dean with a raised brow, and Dean shrugs.  
  
“Go on, go get some sleep,” he says, scratching his neck, “I’ll wait up. I wanna check a couple other things before we do this thing anyway.”  
  
“Okay. Night.”  
  
Sam shuffles down the hall, and Dean rolls his shoulders a couple of times, working out the knot in his neck, before heading into the kitchen to rinse out their coffee mugs.  
  
When he emerges a few minutes later, Castiel is back, sitting at the table with his eyes fixed on a leather-bound book of Enochian poetry.   
  
Waiting on the other side, sitting on top of Dean’s research, is a shiny gold medallion, attached to a blue ribbon.  
  
Dean picks it up with a bemused smile.  
  
“Is this your idea of a joke, Cas?”  
  
Castiel looks up, smirking and inclines his head slightly. Dean laughs, shaking his head as he smooths the ribbon over his hand.  
  
“I Iove it.”  
  
“I love _you_ ,” Castiel replies, simply, and folds his hands over the open book before him as if it didn’t come completely out of left field. As if it were just a piece of information he thought Dean might be vaguely interested in and not the single most important thing anyone had ever said to him.  
  
Dean feels all the blood rush to his head.  
  
“You—?”  
  
He gulps. His hands suddenly feel too big, and he doesn’t know where to put them, so he fiddles with the medallion. Restrains himself from pressing the cool metal of it to his rapidly warming face.  
  
“I… you… me?” he manages to sputter out, head spinning, heart clenching in his chest, and Castiel nods.  
  
“I know you don’t like to talk about this kind of thing,” Castiel says, closing the book, his expression open and sincere, “but I thought I should say it aloud. Just in case.”  
  
“Okay,” Dean breathes it more than says it, “so, uh…”  
  
He’s still standing, fingers twitching nervously, and Castiel watches him.  
“Sit down, Dean,” Castiel says.  
  
“Yeah. I am. I mean, I will,” he jerks forward to sit in the chair, nearly knocking it over in the process, and tries to steady himself.   
  
This thing between them has been there too long, unacknowledged, and now that Castiel has decided to thrust it out into the open he doesn’t know what to do.  
  
So he stares. Just keeps staring.   
  
Castiel stands.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“Yeah?” his voice comes out almost a whisper, and Castiel rounds the table. Dean shoots to his feet again, turning to face him, one hand pressing down into the smooth surface of the table.  
  
“When you said you needed me,” he starts, quiet, close now, “is this what you meant?”  
  
Dean clears his throat, eyes wide, and nods in lieu of speaking.  
  
“I’d like to try something.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Raising one hand, slow, Castiel brings it to rest on the side of Dean’s face, thumb stroking soft over his cheekbone, finger curled around behind his ear. He steps closer, the toes of his shoes bumping into Dean’s.  
  
“Is this okay?” he asks, leaning in, and Dean doesn’t bother answering, just tilts his face forward as Castiel’s lips touch the corner of his mouth, then turns so they are flush against his.  
  
When he pulls back, Dean’s mouth opens with the intent to speak, but nothing comes.  
  
There aren’t words, he realizes, because he never anticipated having to say them. But he’s felt it; felt it for a long time, felt it every time Castiel has returned to him.  
  
And for just as long he’s known it for what it is, because it’s warm and it’s real; one lazy pulse that rolls out from his chest, out as far as his wrists, his fingertips, tingling raw and holy in a way that almost hurts. He’s felt it in the jelly legs he never thought he’d have, in words that catch in the hollow of his throat, in coiled heat at the base of his spine.   
  
It’s always been love, and now it reaches out with his hands.


End file.
